


Double-edged

by Veshtar



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII, Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veshtar/pseuds/Veshtar
Summary: Since losing Zack, Weapon Cloud Strife has refused to take on any other partner, retiring behind the scenes to train young cadets at the Radiant Garden. Some days, however, he can’t help but miss being on the frontline, especially when forced to deal with cocky Soldier transfers who think they can fight a war by themselves.[Also known as the 'not really but close enough' Soul Eater AU.]





	Double-edged

I.  
  
“Sora, Roxas- you’re up.” Cloud beckoned the last pair into the training ring, pulling a second short sword from the weapons rack. His brunette student lets out a characteristic ‘whoop’ as he leaps from the observation deck down into the pit, unlaced sneakers kicking up loose turface. Roxas follows with less fanfare, joining Sora and taking his offered hand.  
  
The connection engulfs Roxas’ form, immersing him in light.  
  
A Weapon’s transformation is a ‘blink and you miss it’ action, and a lot less fantastical after having seen, _having performed_ the action hundreds of times already. None of the cadets seated above bat an eye anymore at the light show, though Cloud is somewhat convinced Sora still finds the process ‘absolutely magical’- the kid's words, not his, when one Roxas becomes two steel broadswords in each hand.  
  
“Let’s show Cloud what we’ve got!” Sora says eagerly, and Cloud feels rather than hears the exasperated, but fond response. Whatever Roxas had said makes the brunette scoff playfully, but complies in tying his shoes before adopting the form Cloud had instructed the pair to work on.  
  
He invites his students to make the first move with a nod, shifting into a ready stance.  
  
_Clank._ Forward block with his left to block the first strike, and a side-stepping parry to follow through. Cloud would have to remind Sora about his predictable start. There was something to be said for attacking in other directions aside from head-on.  
  
“That the best you can do?” the blonde asks, blades locked with Sora’s to prevent escape. A fierce shake of brown spikes answers his taunt, a ghost of a grin renewing their efforts. Good.  
  
Their spar continues as he intends, exchanging blows for the sake of both pushing and pulling- Cloud drawing out as much as his students could dish out. A nudge here, and push there- all while analyzing how to better them for the next time. In the ring, Cloud all but ceded himself the part of ‘a glorified training dummy’, uncaring how a number of fellow instructors found his methods. Observing the siblings through repetitious drills and restriction-riddled spars with other cadets wouldn’t tell him what he needed. Not like direct combat would.  
  
He cuts a horizontal break in Sora’s offense, knowing the brunette feels the sing of the hit in his non-dominant arm. He backsteps and prepares for the other’s leaping strike.  
  
_Crash_ . Sora’s smile doesn’t waver even as his dual-strike is caught with Cloud’s right sword. He bares the teen’s attack, keeping the brunette midair for a second before pushing back and sending his student flying harmlessly.  
  
“Your transitions are getting better,” but he could still feel Sora favoring one hand over the other.  
  
Unrelenting, he shoots for Sora’s left side before the teen can reorient himself. Unprepared for his assault, he feels Sora, and by extension Roxas, quiver against the brunt of the hit.  
  
“-However,” he swings his second sword down to join the other, knocking the left blade from Sora’s weakened grip. In a fluid sweep of both swords in a final strike, the right follows suit, clattering in protest. “Not only is your force split between two, but until your last attack, you’ve been keeping the blades too far from each other. There’s little point to two swords if you’re only going to come at me with one at a time.”  
  
Behind them, Roxas groans- two merging back to one boy.    
  
“And you’re sure you’d both rather pursue dual-wielding?” Cloud asks, unspoken ‘maybe reconsider’ hidden in his tone- for more his own sake than theirs. He already knows its a futile suggestion and accepts the casual dismissal from Sora with ease.  
  
Prior, the brothers had been well on their way to making Third class. Albeit not the flashiest pair- that honor belonged to cadets Axel and Reno, the brothers stood out among their peers for their surprising dexterity and Sora’s unique approach to bludgeoning as one would with a club- not a longsword. It had worked out well enough though, so Cloud felt no pressing need to correct the brunette’s form.  
  
Then Roxas reached a limit break, and he found the two in his office the day of their promotion, asking to revisit basics.  
  
He assumed it had been Roxas’s idea. For a Weapon to reach a break, that meant there needed to be a more conscious effort to maintain one form over the other. A lapse, especially in battle, could prove dangerous. Surprisingly, however, it was Sora who had been the more vehement between the pair, set on fully supporting the form Roxas found the most comfortable to hold.  
  
As a Weapon who had reached a number of limit breaks himself, Cloud could respect a Soldier who was as open to their partner's growth as Sora was, so, dual-blades and another year under Cloud’s instruction it was.

The blonde winced internally. Though at this rate, it was looking like it’d be a bit more than a year. Sora had the instincts, but ingrained muscle memory had him performing to the same level as semi-coherent ‘button mashing’. Ok, but not great. Viable, but not enough.  
  
The Unversed weren’t going to wait forever, and neither was Radiant Garden for their soldiers.    
  
II.  
  
_“-efforts are still in full swing after the disastrous fall, next month marking the second year since-”_  
  
Spindly fingers twist a dial, silencing the announcer's voice for unobtrusive background static. The soft crackle and pop before the radio signal is cut accentuates the silence between the only two in the bar. It's closer to noon than evening, but the Underworld has always had open doors for Cloud.  
  
“Not that I mind you skulking about, but don’t you have some hot-shot meeting to attend to?” the proprietor asks.  
  
Cloud glowers at Hades from the rim of his drink. The ice tinks softly against the bottom of the glass when he sets it down. “Do I?” he challenges.  
  
The sallow looking barkeep rolls his eyes, blue from the ornate skylight reflecting off the glassy orbs as they move in their sockets. Hades, Cloud thinks, is kind of unpleasant to look at. He still finds himself drawn to the movement in morbid curiosity.  
  
“Hello? God of the Underworld here, give a man some credit.” Hades crows. “I got enough ears and eyes out there to know a thing or ten.”  
  
Enough to be informed on Garden proceedings, at least. A steady trickle of odd information Cloud could pass off as the offset of barkeeping. Hades casual knowledge of major political figures, militant secrets, and the literal criminal underworld? There left little doubt how deep the roots of the many ‘eyes and ears’ ran.  
  
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he points firmly, sending a searing look over the counter. Hades has the nerve to look unabashed. “But the Garden hardly requires the presence of a _basics instructor_ to conduct its business.”  
  
“ _Basics_ instructor.” The barkeep repeats his words like they were an insult to himself personally. “A guy like you shouldn’t be wasting away at some kiddie Garden. At this rate you’re gonna rust from inactivity- I meant that figuratively by the way, but hey who knows with you Weapon types,” he says, taking Cloud’s glass and replacing it with something different.  
  
Cloud raises a brow at the offering. It’s in a uniquely shaped glass with a single reservoir, cloudy, and arsenic-green in color.  
  
“L’heure verte est arrivée,” Hades says proudly, gesturing for Cloud to take a sip. When the Weapon continues to stare at him uncertainly, he drops the showy preface. “Just take the damn drink, Strife.”  
  
“Beware of strangers bearing gifts.”  
  
“I’m no stranger considering your tab, and it's not a gift, it’s 100 gil. And I’m expecting a tip.”  
  
Shrugging, Cloud takes a tentative taste. If whatever Hades concocted does somehow manage to kill him, at least he can forget about the exorbitant price tag.  
  
The color has him thinking apple initially, but as it sits on his tongue, he finds licorice and notes of herbal... something. Also a touch of sweet. All in all, not too bad. He tells so to Hades, who comments the depth of his insight couldn’t fill a kiddie pool.    
  
“So, how’re you feeling?” Hades asks at the halfway mark, a little too eager for Cloud’s comfort.  
  
He means to retort with “what’s that supposed to mean” but his mouth feels raw, like taking a hit to the jaw without the pain. What comes out instead, to his horror and embarrassment, is a small trickle of drool. The blonde quickly wipes his mouth and sends an indignant glare up at Hades, who’s taken to looking quite smug.  
  
“Speechless? I know right. I’m thinking about calling it ‘Cat’s Eye’- you’ll see why eventually. ”  
  
“Wazzit?” Cloud demands to the best of his current abilities. He ignores the disconnect he feels between the words and how his mouth feels around them.  
  
“Innovation!” The barkeep exclaims, flinging his arms open and barring those incredibly creepy file-pointed teeth. When Cloud presses again with another well-enunciated demand, Hades relents. “Nothing bad, honestly! Absinthe, sugar, honey, and a touch of vitamin-k,” he counts the ingredients on his fingers. “Look, you’ll be fine. Just walk it off or something. I’ll add today to your tab. Go on, vamoose.”  
  
Cloud’s not happy about the dismissal, but he’s definitely not as bothered as he thinks he would be otherwise, given the circumstance. There’s something that’s curling around his consciousness like a lazy cat, beckoning him like the drag of sleep- but rather than falling, he’s drifting.  
  
There’s still a niggling, a shrapnel of thought saying this should be concerning; that even though he’s fallen asleep in worse places than the Underworld, this was no place to let his guard down. He’s not too preoccupied with this little worry though, he’s much more invested in how he feels like a stranger in his own body.  
  
When he moves to stand, he's piloting rather than doing- scrambling for the buttons and levers like an amateur who'd never flown Air Cloud before.  
  
The sudden change in height turns Hades into a stretched afterimage. Squinting helps put the bartender back together, but Cloud doesn’t like the bemused look at his expense and lets Hades turn back into a Kids Pix project.  
  
He isn’t stumbling as he thought he would, but it’s still slow goings. When he makes it out the door, Hades speaks up again. He’s uncharacteristically subdued this time around, and despite being meters away, Cloud hears the voice as if it's up against his ear. It's sticky and unpleasant, like licking the underside of a bar stool. Even through the addled cotton haze, it plucks a dangerous chord in Cloud’s mind- the niggling shrapnel from before hisses.  
  
“You know Cloud, if you ever decide you’re tired of playing war, there are some interested parties I can get you in touch with. There’s always room for someone like you here on the other side.”  
  
The Weapon lets the slam of the door answer for him.  
  
III.  
  
The start is slow; on the streets, mosaics of broken glass glitter just so- and the crunch they make under his boots is ear-candy. He’d already stopped once to knead at a particularly large patch- half a wine bottle, its long neck still intact. With a heavy stomp, he shatters it, reveling in the kill.  
  
When the pieces are just glass again and not something more macabre, Cloud continues his stiff shuffle upward. There’s an irritation somewhere behind his eyes, and he’s blinking to try to soothe it- he’s not putting his hands anywhere near his face though- that’s asking for pink eye.    
  
There are no cars to worry about hitting him, but a road unmaintained since the rise of the plate is enough of a reason to watch his step. Rain hasn’t touched the undercrust in years, but due to the purposeful angle of the sectors, a runoff flows down the crust’s haggard back. It was supposed to act like a drain, flushing out what couldn’t naturally. Instead, it just coats the ground with an oily wetness. Locals and frequent visitors don’t mind the occasional splash, but upper-crusters are easily identified by their reluctance to step from the sidewalks.  
  
At some point closer to the plate, a group of teenagers passes him on their way down. One claps his arm in passing, “Crazy looking eyes, man!” given hastily before returning to the cluster, damp smacks resounding after them.  
  
While he didn’t think there was anything particularly ‘crazy’ about his icy blues, Cloud finds himself veering to the sidewalk anyway. There’s an open space in front of a shop, it’s storefront display clean enough to reflect. Inside, there are various models of televisions playing in the displays, refurbished, and all on the same channel. The people he manages to squeeze beside are all watching the same reporter talk. The voice is familiar, but he’s too focused on his own reflection.  
  
_“Cleanup efforts are still in full swing after the disastrous fall, next month marking the second year since the destruction of Midgar’s Garden, and subsequently, the first major attack by the Unversed.”_  
  
He forgets about his ‘no face touching’ rule, middle finger gingerly pulling at the bottom of his lid.  
  
_“President Rufus Shinra, son of the late president of the Garden, will be making an appearance to unveil the memorial dedicated to those lost in the explosion and in the battle that followed. ”_  
  
He leans in closer to his reflection, bracing himself against the glass. Where blue should be, ropey fibers of green are throbbing around his engorged pupil. They pulse in tandem to the hammering in his ears.  
  
_“Our hearts go out to the brave soldiers lost that day-”_  
  
The unfamiliar black pits clench- he’s lost in the unfamiliar green webs that have taken his eyes. There’s a lump he can’t swallow, and it's getting larger-  
  
_Why is it that you get to live when he didn’t, Cloud?_  
  
His stomach drops then rises; too hard, too fast. He expels all of it; unbidden memories and vomit, encouraged by poor choices and seedy bars.  
  
Two heavy heaves and it's over, head hung and his mouth tasting sour. When he chances a look back at himself, it’s just his familiar reflection looking back, grimacing face spattered with amber bile.  
  
IV.  
  
There’s a can of Holy-G in reach, fingers just grazing the chilled can, arm still trapped by the flap of the vending machine, when Cloud is finally hunted down.  
  
‘Hunted’ is a bit of an exaggeration. That implies he’d been evading them, which he was not.  He’d taken the most straightforward path back onto Garden grounds, stopped by his office- his _actual_ office, not the white-walled corporate block he’d been issued, washed up a bit, then headed straight for the canteen. It was hardly the most conspicuous of places to avoid location, especially at the start of dinner hours.  
  
If he wanted to make their job harder, he would have started by leaving his identifier behind. Instead, the little steel stud glittered unassumingly from his left ear, knowing the hassle if the Garden had sought him out, only to find the earring sans owner instead.  
  
When he rights himself, cracking the sports drink open, he takes a long sip. It feels good to have something back in his stomach after his earlier incident. He’s still not entirely sure what happened, but he was feeling relatively normal again and hadn’t puked, so. He’d take small victories where he could.  
  
The young Soldier, his ‘hunter’, isn’t someone Cloud recognizes, but she’s clearly distressed, having had been “searching all up and down the Garden” for him for the better of the afternoon.

There’s a sparkling silver chain attached to her identifier. It sways animatedly with the girl's terse movements, looping down and then up to a cuff higher on the lobe; the Garden’s way of gilding a Second for formal occasions and official business. A number of passing cadets eye the regalia in equal parts envy and awe. It reminds Cloud of his own gods-awful set hidden under his trunk.  
  
“So,” he begins plainly from the lip of the Holy-G. “I take it the directors aren’t happy I skipped.”  
  
“Not in so many words,” the Second responds tiredly. She tucks a misplaced lock of chocolate hair back in place. “But they’ve issued correctional services as punishment in lieu of third-count insubordination.”  
  
“Correctional services.” He echos.  
  
She nods. “We can discuss the details now if you’d like. Otherwise, I can explain on the way to the exhibition hall.”  
  
Not wanting to seem more difficult than his disappearing act already insinuated, Cloud spares the Second his typical flat ‘whatever’ and follows her out.  
  
They take the exterior route, emerging onto a herringbone walkway. It bisects the middle level of the Garden; wide enough to drive three transport trucks side by side, and separated into two lanes by verdant strips of landscaping. Cloud is unlucky enough to be walking too close to the strip when the sprinklers turn on. The misting is tolerable, but the hems of his black cargos are thoroughly soaked by the lower rotary spray.

The Second is completely spared. She bites down a grin while he pushes dewy bangs from his eyes, and they wordlessly move further from the line of fire before resuming where they last left off.

Correctional services. He should be grateful to have avoided hard labor, the unspoken ‘this time’ hanging in the air. Thanks to similar stunts, Cloud has already become well acquainted with the hard-working men and women from transports. And he’s pretty sure the groundskeeper would impart their own form of divine punishment if he ever showed up again. The Weapon had a notorious black thumb.  
  
As it was, his time would be spent filling in for exhibition events- one of which was today, and acclimating a transfer from the southern continent to the Garden. The duration of his obligation to both would last as long as it took the transfer to settle. Going off of how long it took Cloud when he himself transferred in, it was probably looking to be somewhere around two months. Maybe even less. Central’s language was fairly straightforward and way closer to the patterns of Southern than it had been to Western.

And to top it all off, he was still permitted leave Garden grounds in the duration.  
  
“They’re being... uncharacteristically lenient.” The Second muses. Cloud agreed.

While becoming a temporary show-pony for Garden events would suck, being paired with having to cram a few key phrases like ‘sword’ and ‘stab’ into a ward hardly seemed ‘third-count insubordination’ bad. There had to be more to it. That’s where they disagreed.

“I wouldn’t put it past them to put something in the fine print,” he protests, ushered through the massive glass doors of the exhibition hall.

“Do you always look gift chocobos in the beak?” 

“Only if it’s looking at me funny,” he pauses when the Second stops.  
  
“Sorry, one moment. I almost forgot- before you head down to the arena-” she’s digging for something in the pocket of her skirt. What she produces from the folds is small, black, and is _supposed_ to be hidden under the trunk in his office.

She holds it out expectantly. The inlaid insignia of Radiant Garden stares up at him. His hand eclipses over the box, hesitating, and she presses it insistently into his grasp. A little petulantly, he grumbles something about his office and privacy, which garners a level look from the Second.

“You know, you _have_ an actual office with an actual desk. Also, a storage shed in the training wing hardly constitutes as ‘private’.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s pretty cozy. Also, what would I need a desk for? My job is to train cadets to defend themselves, not file bank statements.“

“Your job is to also be down there,” she points in the vague direction of the arena, “as of five minutes ago.”

The Weapon rolls his eyes, lifting the top of the box with a grimace that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Do you need help attaching your regalia?” The brunette offers helpfully. “I think I have a compact you can- oh! I. You. Sir!” She startles, posture straightening at the sight of crystal and palladium.

The thing was just as gods-awful as he remembered it.

V.

“He looks like a bigger bitch than you, Leonheart.” Seifer comments, insult as offhanded as his dismissal.

Leon doesn’t dignify that with a response, eyes flickering from the somewhat discernable figure below to the enhanced view presented above. One screen is focused on the figure in question, the other, his impatient partner. When the dual-screens converge to show the same picture, the two are conversing in words the visuals can’t relay. They don’t look amiable.

A voice begins to overlays their soundless conversation on the display, admonishing, even if Leon can’t understand the words and the two settle into a semi-at ease stance. The voice continues, but Leon pays more attention to the screen than the incoherent gibberish.

The impatient man has taken to looking straight ahead, listening to the overhead voice with rapt attention. His back is ramrod straight, feet apart just so, head held high.

Beside him, the blonde fidgets, head slowly succumbing to the weight hanging from his ear.

It’s an exquisite dead-weight; an aiguillette of snake chain hanging sinuously from a cuff at the top of his helix. The two chains rest at the back of the ear, looping elegantly around the lobe to their post, a wolf head, and hang lazily- strung through the ring in its mouth. At the heads of these chains are two crystals, impossibly dazzling, impossibly heavy.

Possibly unable to bear it, the blonde tries to alleviate the weight by letting the hanging gems rest on his finger. His partner spares him a glance. It's withering.

‘Don’t be a wimp’, or maybe ‘Stop fondling your jewels’, Leon narrates silently.

At the behest of the disembodied voice, the scarred man thrusts his hand out to the blonde.

Leon recognized the gesture, as demanding as it was. It's supposed to be symbolic; when a Soldier offered their hand, it represented asking for the trust of the Weapon. Accepting put the Weapon in the hands of the Soldier. Literally, too.

There’s the barest touch of fingertips, and in a flare of light two dagger-swords materialize in the air. They hover at the point of contact before impaling themselves in the ground at the Soldier’s feet. Hardly the most serendipitous of transformations, but the overhead voice sounds amused when it speaks and the cadets seated below laugh. The Soldier isn’t as amused and pulls one of the identical blades out where it almost pierced his foot. They share a private exchange.

If a sword could look defiant, Leon’s sure that's how the blade looked before flashing out of existence, massive cleaver reappearing in a crystalline shock. The sudden extra weight has the man straining not to drop the sword, though Leon can imagine he’d probably like nothing more.

The pair’s interactions serve as a reminder to why he’s never sought a Weapon partner, and why he still doesn’t plan to. Leon didn’t need to have his own _weapon_ holding him back. An inanimate blade served just as well, and he’d prove that here too.


End file.
